


What Wael Sees

by Yanara126



Series: Watcher Favaen, an Eothas Priestess [8]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: All the sweetness, Blood, Bonding, Character Study, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Kisses, Male intimacy, Religion, Seasickness, Sleep Paralysis, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Watcher Favaen, mention of slavery, non graphic execution, nothing nsfw though, sprinkled with angst, the tags will fill up the more pieces I add, tragic irony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yanara126/pseuds/Yanara126
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short pieces I write from the prompts I get. Feel free to send me some either here or on my Tumblr. :)The topics and characters won't be consistent, and I have no idea what will actually end up here. It's a secret.
Relationships: Adaryc Cendamyr & The Watcher, Edér Teylecg & The Watcher, Eothas & The Watcher (Pillars of Eternity), Eothas & Waidwen (Pillars of Eternity), The Watcher & Female Original Character, Waidwen & Broder, Waidwen & Mani
Series: Watcher Favaen, an Eothas Priestess [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690846
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Tiger Lily (Favaen)

The first time Favaen had heard of the Knights of the Crucible she’d been excited. Through all the horror she’d found in this land, an order of knights dedicated to Abydon had been a welcome reprieve. At actually meeting them she’d been… disappointed. They were good people, that she was sure of, but the dozens weren’t entirely wrong in their judgement, no matter how bigoted they were.

Now, standing at the forge with the forge master Dunstan looking over her shoulder, as she was sweating through her thin undershirt, all thoughts of excitement and disappointment were gone. What was left was only concentration. Nothing else was important in that moment, only what she’d come for. Occasionally Dunstan handed her an instrument or materials, never interfering with her work, only judging quietly.

The heat was meditative in its extreme, pushing her endurance to the limit as she worked on her piece. Sweat was pearling down her skin, her hair stuck to her head and her muscles were starting to burn. Since coming to the Dyrwood she’d never been more content than in this moment. Lost in her work and consumed by the satisfaction of a craft well practised, she could forget her pain and longing and exhaustion.

She was by no means a master blacksmith but giving this job to someone else hadn’t been an option. She wanted to do this herself, just like she’d done most of the work on Caed Nua’s chapel herself. For everything she didn’t know how to do, she had consulted with the experts she’d hired for the rest of the keep, acquiring quite a set of a new skills on the way, but the actual work she’d done herself. Now that the small building was essentially finished, there was only one more thing to do, aside from officially dedicating it. The statue inside was repaired and bestowed with the proper likeness, but it was still missing its silver crown. A crown that Favaen was currently putting her heart into making.

Due to the lack of a forge in Caed Nua, it was a keep after all and not a production site, she’d come here, using the reputation she’d earned for herself to get her access to the forge. Dunstan had been hesitant at first to let her close to his priced working place, but after some negotiating and assurances that she knew what she was doing, he let her do her work, under the condition that he would supervise. Favaen had no issue letting him, he was far more experienced than her after all, and she could hardly deny the master knowledge of what was done with his forge.

In what felt both like an eternity and no time at all the crown was finished and the metal cool enough for the finishing touch, the inscription. With steady hands Favaen carved in the words, script clean and clear, free from any adornment that would inhibit its readability.

_And the sun shall break through the darkness, the new dawn arriving with the rebirth of the day._

Carefully she cleaned off the flakes and polished the silver one last time. Holding it against the light, seeing it reflecting off the metal so beautifully and hearing Dunstan’s gruff hum of approval, she couldn’t help the pride swelling in her chest. Even through all the hardships she’d found in the last months, she’d stayed true to her path, had taken the darkness of the night encroaching around her, and had filled it with the light of stars.

Mearwald’s death had been a tragedy, but one she hadn’t been able to avoid. She hadn’t known him for very long, but from what the steward had told her, she was sure he would be proud of what she’d made of his legacy. Caed Nua was rapidly growing, the keep all but restored and drawing people from all over the Dyrwood, but especially from around Gilded Vale, for obvious reasons.

Aloth had been an invaluable help in learning how to manage her new territory, and with his help she managed to both keep the people happy and the coffers filled with the coin she needed to pay the guards and for the upkeep of the land, with a little bit left for her own expenses.

It was an adventure she’d never expected but was infinitely grateful for. The night she’d found herself in might be long, but the stars where there to guide everyone who knew how to read them, and there were few things Favaen knew as well as this. Reading the stars and making her own path to dawn, no matter how often she stumbled.

This crown in her hand was proof of that. It and she were the product of many different paths, and though she’d certainly like some better than others, all of them had taught her valuable lessons, and she’d learnt them well. Perhaps it was arrogant of her to think so, but if that arrogance made it possible for her to be the lantern her god and her people needed her to be, then she would pride herself on that as much any other of her skills.

And this crown, made by her hands in Abydon’s spirit and forge for Eothas, would be the marker of her reign, the symbol for all she longed to stand for.

She couldn’t wait to place it on Eothas’ brow.


	2. Sleep Paralysis (Waidwen, Eothas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to suffer last night, so Waidwen has to as well. Though it did get a bit more angsty than I expected. Clearly spending all day writing this thing was the best way to deal with not getting enough sleep.

The room was too cold and too hot at the same time. It was dark, but still copper glinted from light that wasn’t there. The air seemed green, even though he couldn’t see. Voices murmured in the background, speaking a language he couldn’t understand, words loudly ringing in his ears.

He wanted to get away, to turn and run and never look back, but he couldn’t move. He was tied down, he couldn’t flee, he was trapped, he was-

No, he wasn’t, and he knew that in some distant part of his mind. He wasn’t really trapped and the only reason he couldn’t move was his own body refusing to obey him. There was no threat, no other people in the room with him, but it felt like there were, like there were hundreds of people looming over him, staring him down with cold and unfeeling gazes, while at the same time accusing him with desperation.

The material under his back felt like cold, hard iron, even though just hours ago he’d found it too soft. The figures kept glaring, and some started getting closer, lifting their hands, the voices starting to shriek in pain and anger, and he wanted to scream too, wanted to open his mouth and cry, but not even his jaw would obey him. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real-

Suddenly warmth flooded him, the spectres and copper and green vanished, leaving behind the same too large room he’d went to sleep in the evening before, and he drew in a sharp breath. Heaving for air and filled with too much adrenalin he lifted his hand and called upon the presence hovering just outside his own consciousness. The presence responded, radiating concern but following his request without hesitation. His hand began to glow softly, lighting up every corner of the room.

The light and the comforting warmth coursing through his body helped, and once his breathing had slowed down again, he pulled himself up with groan. Stretching his muscles, he dragged his hands over his face, dimly wondering again at how the brightness didn’t hurt his eyes.

_Are you alright?_ The voice was still oozing with concern and confusion, and though he would have been touched at a different time, he was not in the mood to explain this particular experience, much less to someone who’s entire being was essentially built from serenity and confidence. He grunted once, hoping the god would leave him alone. No such luck of course. Eothas patience and love was only rivalled by his curiosity.

_What was that?_

“The bane of mortality,” he mumbled, finally noticing the sandy feeling in his mouth, as he deliberately ignored the questions, he could feel flicker to the back of his mind. Eothas didn’t pressure him, but neither did he back off, remaining a constant blaze softly brushing along his senses.

Waidwen got up, already aware that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, and was about to leave his room in search of some water, when he remembered the jug next to his bed. With a heavy sigh he sat back down, took the jug, and gulped the water down like a man dying of thirst. His mouth immediately felt better, but he couldn’t just drink away the uncomfortableness of his situation as a whole.

The jug made a loud bang when he set it down too hard, the noise breaking the silence of the night and Waidwen cringed away. Eothas was still there, his energy burning softly as He kept the room alight. They sat in silence, Eothas waiting and Waidwen ignoring Him. He knew it wasn’t fair of him, but the edges of terror still cut sharply into his mind.

In search of a distraction Waidwen looked around the room, but all it did was make him even more anxious. He didn’t belong in this strange place, this weird giant room with too much furniture and this too soft bed. His whole life he’d cursed the suffering he’d been born into. Now he’d gotten what he’d wished for, and he didn’t know what to do with it. The walls were closing in on him, while at the same time making him feel vulnerable and exposed with how far apart they were.

Apparently no longer content with watching Waidwen work himself into another nervous breakdown, Eothas inched even closer, brushing comfortingly over his senses and soothing his blazing nerves. When the god gently pushed down the rising anxiety closing up his throat, Waidwen was too drained to complain.

Eothas seemingly accepted that He wouldn’t get any answers this night and refrained from commenting again, merely sticking close and continually bathing the room in a warm light. They stayed like this for a while in complete silence, no sound of the night being able to pass through the sturdy walls and windows.

“Tomorrow will be long again,” Waidwen muttered under his breath. He knew Eothas wouldn’t condemn him and would grant his request without judgment, but still he couldn’t bring himself to voice it, to admit his own vulnerability aloud, or even in his thoughts.

But he didn’t have to, Eothas understood him even without words. He felt the god’s affirmation in a way he couldn’t explain anymore, it was just there, unfailing and unquestioning.

With heavy limbs he climbed back into bed, not bothering with the blanket. Freezing wasn’t an issue he had anymore. His head hit the pillow, and already he could feel a comfortable weight pressing down on him. Not like before, not cold and suffocating, but cozy and safe and warm, and all those things he’d never felt back home.

Once all tension had left his body and his muscles felt more like liquid than firm matter, the weight settled also on his consciousness. Gentle fingers took hold of his soul, and his mind was pushed down, away from the awareness of the waking world, and wrapped in a mantle of blissful slumber, all guilt over letting himself be helped like this pushed to the side.

All that remained was peace, and at this point in his life Waidwen could think of no better gift.


	3. Pine (Favaen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favaen sees her first execution and learns from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a tad bit longer than I expected. By the way, Pine: Pity, Hope.

The large courtroom was filled to the brim with people and Favaen was felt like she was being squashed. She wasn’t usually one to mind large amounts of people, but this time she felt out of place and ignored, without an actual reason for being here. The people around her whispered to each other, contempt filling their voices and making them ring far louder than they were meant to. Feet shuffled, arms swung around, faces contorted in anger, and the air was filled with malicious excitement. Favaen felt herself freeze, shoulders pulled up and legs ready to pounce, making herself a smaller target while preparing to defend herself, like she’d learnt back in the Magran temple. Not that it was truly of any use. No one here would physically attack her. Everyone in this room who might mean her harm had better ways to do so.

A hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing comfortingly, and Favaen looked up to Ydona, though it wasn’t much of an up anymore. Soon she would be taller than her mentor. The older woman gave her an encouraging smile, and even without hearing the words, Favaen knew what she was telling her. She’d heard the words many times before. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Favaen nodded, shuffling closer to Ydona’s side. If asked later she would deny it with vengeance, after all, she wasn’t a child anymore, but in that cramped room where no one would see, she reached for her mentor’s hand, clinging to it as though her life depended on it. The older woman showed no sign of noticing, only firmly holding on to Favaen as they were looking out over the fenced off area in the middle of the room, where a Woedican priest was preparing for the trial ahead.

The air was getting thicker, not only in the metaphorical way, and Favaen had to supress a cough. The Woedican priest was burning frankly ridiculous amounts of incense, and as it was a closed off room it couldn’t escape into the air around, as it would at an Eothasian service or at the beginning of a hunt of Galawain. Both Abydon’s and Magran’s priests knew better than to spread so much of the blessed fragrance in an enclosed space. Apparently Woedica was of a different opinion.

Finally, the priest seemed satisfied and took his place at the bench at the head of the room. The guards loudly stomped their spears on the ground and the room grew quiet. The silence did nothing to calm Favaen’s nerves though. Resentment and scorn were still burning as strongly as the insence, causing her skin to crawl uncomfortably, all too aware of what these emotions felt like, and what they could make someone do.

The doors leading into the empty area opened with force, banging into the wall, and making Favaen flinch at the noise. Another guard came in, dragging someone behind him by a chain connecting to a collar around their neck. As they passed them by, Favaen could see that it was a male orlan, barely clothed and fur matted with blood. One of his ears was torn, and the tip only hanging off a piece of skin in a gruesome display of cruelty. Favaen gagged, shutting her mouth as tightly as she could.

The man scowled at every one of the nobles he limped past, seething with as much hatred as everyone around him as he glared burning holes into every single person in his line of sight. Including Favaen. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight, both of fear and guilt, and even a small spark of defensive anger. She inched even closer to Ydona, seeking shelter as much from the malice around her, as from the turmoil it caused in herself.

In front of the bench with the priest the orlan was forced to his knees as the guard forcefully yanked on the chain and toppled him, his knees hitting the marble floor with a crack.

The priest started reading aloud the accusations against the man. Or not man, but property, technically. A slave that had killed his master, a well renowned noble, in an attempt to escape. Favaen had known this, had known why they were here, but actually seeing it was a different matter. She was torn in her judgment. On the one hand he’d killed someone, someone who had trusted him. Stabbed them in their sleep. On the other hand, she could see his injuries. Many of them too old to be from his time in jail.

Looking for an answer she turned to Ydona, but her mentor had no eyes for in that moment. Spine straight and rigid she watched over the proceedings, face tighter than Favaen had ever seen on her.

No richer for an answer she turned back to the trial just in time to see the priest end the accusations. The silence didn’t last, for as soon as the slaves muzzle was removed to allow him a comment, nothing more than a formality, he started cursing. Spit flying from his mouth he screamed all his hatred and despair into the priest’s face, who looked on, unimpressed. One hand movement by the Woedican priest and the muzzle was forced back onto the slave’s face, whose struggling grew more and more desperate, blood running in thin lines from under the shackles.

The priest spoke his verdict, death, to be carried out immediately. The room exploded with cheers. Shouts of agreement, slurs, promises of even more violence and the heady scent of incense filled the heated air. Favaen could feel her blood run cold. She hadn’t had any illusions about what would happen here this day, but she hadn’t been prepared for this aggression, this undiluted hatred, even as she herself couldn’t help but silently condemn the man shaking on the floor.

“I object.” The voice, though calm and almost soft, carried through the room, over the hatred and anger and with the same authority the Woedican priest had spoken with. Favaen looked up in surprise and looked at her mentor, whose face had taken on a look of serenity and peace that Favaen couldn’t help but envy. Ydona did not look at her, but squeezed her hand tightly, assuring her without taking her eyes of the judge, who didn’t seem surprised at the interruption.

The people quieted again, throwing the pair of Eothasians annoyed looks, tainted with disdain and disapproval. Favaen shrivelled under the damning attention, feeling almost like a toddler with the way she clung to her mentor.

“Cite your name and authority,” the judge ordered, his cold and unfeeling voice in stark contrast to the heated tempers of the audience.

“I am Mother Ydona, representative of the Abbey of the Dawnstars. I come offering sanctuary.” The judge nodded and gestured for the guards to take the muzzle off once again. Favaen didn’t know what she had expected, the still seething and burning hatred in the slave’s eyes hadn’t been it. Even though he was shaking where he was kneeling, fear radiating off him like warmth off the rising sun, he spit onto the floor in their direction.

“I don’t need your sanctuary, bitch!” he growled, salvia and blood spraying from his mouth. The muzzle was immediately shoved back over his mouth. Favaen watched the struggle in front of her, watched as the slave was slapped across the face as he attempted to bite the guard, and could do nothing but stare. She was outraged at the disrespect and at the same time sorry that this was happening at all, that a sentient being was treated like this.

Next to her she could feel her mentor deflate somewhat, still a firm pillar of support, but clearly saddened by the reaction displayed before her.

“The offer of Eothas’ sanctuary has been rejected. The sentence will be carried out immediately.” Ydona accepted the judge’s words with a nod, and stepped back a little, never letting go of Favaen’s hand.

The execution following was a gruesome scene, and Favaen couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. Blood sprayed over the floor, though not far enough to reach the cheering spectators. The corpse, only just a living, struggling kith, was still twitching as it lied on the ground. All those people around her, most of them nobles, priding themselves on their sophistication, revelling in the violence before them.

Favaen had seen blood and even death before. Of course she had, as an acolyte of Galawain or Magran you couldn’t avoid it. Technically she’d even killed before, a boar on her first actual hunt. This was different. This wasn’t a hunt for food or a controlled duel. This was a slaughter.

The execution was over, and still Favaen couldn’t stop staring. She was frozen on the spot, her thoughts circling over and over as she watched the blood run across the marble like thick juice, odd glints of light reflecting off the fluid. She didn’t know if it was the shock, the incense, or something else, but her feet were rooted to the floor so firmly, not even the shifting masses of people around her were enough to push her away. She felt as if the blood was flooding ever closer to her, extending accusing fingers of carnal rivulets, coming closer as if to choke her for her part in this, however passive.

Only when a familiar hand, far softer and gentler than her own, callused from years at the forge, landed on her shoulder and firmly pulled her away from the scene could she tear her eyes off the crimson sea of gore that hadn’t spread as far as the closest observer’s ornate boots. She stumbled along with the pull, blindly tripping after her mentor and through the mass of people, the smoke, and her own thoughts, knowing she would never find her way out alone.

In what felt both like an eternity and no time at all, Favaen found herself in front of the courthouse, the comforting rays of light shining from the afternoon sun caressing her face. Still caught in the memory of the last few minutes, she lifted her head and marvelled at Eothas brilliance, letting Him burn away the terrible pictures seared into her eyes.

After a while of losing herself in the warmth and comfort of the one she held so dear, she remembered that she hadn’t been alone. Blinking and slowly returning to reality, she looked around and saw her mentor, one hand still on Favaen’s shoulder, the other one holding Favaen’s own, a concerned but understanding expression on her face.

All at once Favaen felt herself crumble as the last bits of shock fell away, and she burst into tears. Immediately Ydona’s face fell as well, and she pulled Favaen into a tight embrace. Ugly sobs wrecking her body and streams of tears running down her cheeks, Favaen nuzzled her face into her mentor’s… no, mother’s shoulder, and let all that confusion and hurt and pain flood out of her like she’d done only once before. It didn’t matter that they were standing right before one of the biggest public spaces in the city, the world had vanished right alongside her composure. All that remained were the soft robes and gentle arms around her, the quiet humming in her ear, the gentle hand in her hair, and the comforting warmth of the sun overhead.

“I’m sorry, little one.” Favaen felt more than heard the words mumbled against her forehead, and though at any other time she would have protested, in this moment she didn’t mind the nickname.

It took quite a long while for the tears to dry and her sobbing to turn into quiet hiccups. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt anymore, buts she simply ran out of tears to shed. Once she had calmed down somewhat Ydona pulled away, and Favaen couldn’t suppress the small sound of objection in between the sniffling. Ydona didn’t go far though, just moving enough to gently take Favaen’s face between her hands.

“I know it hurts, and I understand that you might not want to hear this right now, but I need you to understand that I didn’t bring you here to punish you,” she said, her grip on Favaen’s face both tender and comforting, as well as firm and not giving her a chance to look away. Through still glistening tears, Favaen look into her mother’s eyes, finding them full of solemn gravity, that she knew only from the few funeral rites she’d seen. Though wasn’t this what this was? A funeral for the part of her that had never seen such cruelty.

“What you saw in there was a tragedy born from another tragedy, born from many tragedies before that. What this man did, wasn’t right, just like what was done to him. What we as Eothas’ heralds must do, is pity these people, show compassion to them, and offer them a better way. Continuing this spiral and anger and vengeance, no matter how justified, would only bring more suffering. We must be the farmers planting the seeds of mercy if we want to see it in the world. But Favaen, though we must lead by example, do not ever forget that you have people to confide in. There are others who share our hope for the future, no matter if they follow our god or not. Lead them, but if you trust them, trust them enough to lead themselves sometimes.” Favaen nodded tearfully. Though she found it difficult to understand the words, deep in herself she knew them to be true. A small smile found its way onto Ydona’s face.

“Look at it like this, a seed cannot grow if you sit on it.” Through her slowly drying tears Favaen giggled, feeling slightly better, though what she had seen still gnawed at her and undoubtedly would for many years to come. And perhaps that was the point, she thought. To be bothered by these things, so that you may never stop striving to be better. To never stop hoping and working for another dawn and spring.

Something about her musing must have shown on her face, for Ydona’s smile grew even warmer and she pressed a soft kiss on Favaen’s forehead. After lingering for a few seconds, she pulled away again and offered Favaen her hand.

“Now, would you like to help me send him off?” Thankfully Favaen took the hand offered to her. Though it sounded strange, a funeral did sound like a good idea. Though a part of her had died in there along with the slave, she promised herself and Eothas in silence that she would make the most of it. She would lay to rest what had been lost this day, and make sure that a brighter future would bloom from it.

Together they made their way back home, always under the watchful gaze of Eothas, who they knew would lead them on to that better future they were hoping for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! It was either this or Emblyn's mistake, which is also still on my increasingly more endless list.


	4. In Dreams (Favaen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favaen dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble/Microstory 1

For some reason she always sleeps better in the small chapel. Maybe it's just the familiar scenery, but she never has nightmares there. Everywhere else, on the road, in any inn, even in the comfortable bed she now calls hers in brighthollow, she always dreams of suffering, of inflicting it, of having it be inflicted on her, of inflicting it on herself. But never in the chapel, never when she falls asleep at His feet. She never really dreams then, there is only a comfortable weight warmth, and sometimes... Sometimes she thinks she can feel Him again. As if His fingers gently brush through her hair as she sleeps, as if His hand tenderly cradles her, as if His voice softly rumbles through His chest and against her skin.

At day Favaen knows it's silly. Nothing more than the crazed fantasies of the mad woman she'd becoming. He has been gone for 15 years, to think he would return now just to quell her nightmares is a selfish one, unbecoming of a priestess of Eothas.

But in her dreams... In her dreams she can pretend and no one can judge her for it.


	5. Dust Motes (Kana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kana finds the beginning to his next adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble/Microstory 2

Kanacoughed. It really was a shame how ignored and therefore dusty this place was. One would think the royal library would be better taken care of as a whole, even if there were corners with texts that the Ranga Nui would rather have forgotten. A shame, really.

Once his lungs had calmed down, a broad grin split his face in anticipation. Oh the treasures left undiscovered here, all for him to explore! The grin softened a little as certain memories appeared in his mind again as they so often did. Nothing would probably ever surpass his adventures in the Dyrwood. But that was alright, this plenty exciting.

Hours later, coverd in so much dust his clothes were more grey than any other colour, he sat on the floor, a single book in hand and overcome with the feeling that he may have been wrong. These texts, buried deep in the royal library, hidden away and forgotten for two decades, may prove another adventure yet. One that could influence the development of Eora an incredible deal. He didn’t know how they came to be here, but he knew well where would go with them. There was a Watcher in the Dyrwood who would be very interested in them, and who would certainly help him on this new quest. 

He had to find the author. The infamous aedyran (readceran?) chanter had long been of enormous interest to him, and now, armed with the first part of his discoveries and some tales of his own to impress with, Kana felt the spark of adventure flare up again. 

Once he could finally rip away his hungry eyes from dusty pages he slammed them shut, causeing him to sneeze again, and jumped up. With fast steps he more ran than walked out the library, heedless of the prostets from the librarian. He a lot prepare, bags to pack, passage to find, goodbyes to make, permissions to get, oh how excited he was!

The servants of the palace later cleaned up a long trail of dust and told tales of a certain historian running as if carried by the storms themselves and laughing like a man insane. The librarian on the other hand found, as they cleaned up the mess left behind in the furthest corner of the library, that one book was missing. They debated marking it down, but reluctantly decided against it. There was a reason that book had been left alone for the twenty years it had been here. They shook their head and returned to the front of the hall again. Whoever would willingly touch such a book, much less read it? Ramblings of a man driven insane by power and grief, nothing more. That title alone should give any sane person reason enough to suspect its background.

_Theories of the Divine, Chanting, and Magic and Their Application in Soul Summoning and Revival Part 1 by Mani Thilion fan Fürst_


	6. Breeze (Favaen, Edér)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favaen suffers on a boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble/Microstory 3

The strong, salty smelling wind blowing into her face is the only reason she isn’t currently hanging over the railing puking her guts out. Favaen knows this. She appreciates it. Still she thinks Hylea may hold a grudge about that dragon after all. Any movement away from her seat at the ship’s stern makes her stomach and head swivel again, or rather swivel worse, the nausea never fully goes away. It’s all she can do to stay here breath in rhythm with the waves and suffer in silence. She almost wishes she hadn’t accepted Berath’s offer. Almost. The hand currently rubbing her back helps to push that thought away.

“Want some more of that green stuff?” Edér almost sounds guilty, and though Favaen would love to assure him, she doesn’t have the capacity for anything beyond a weak hum. She only hopes he understood the affirmation, either opening her mouth or nodding sounds like a terrible idea.

He seems to have understood though because he holds out some more of the bitter herbs for her to shew. They are disgusting but at least they make her stomach numb.

After chewing a while on the fresh herbs and enjoying the comforting hand on her back she feels confident enough to mutter a few words.

“We’ll buy a galleon. Make some money, then a buy galleon.” It’s barely comprehensible even to her, but in her mind is the most serious pledge she’s made in a while. Let Woedica and Ondra argue over who gets it, she would get a galleon. And she prays to Eothas and anyone who will listen that it will rock less. For now she can only hope Hylea will have pity on her and keep the wind blowing at a reasonable strength.


	7. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are falling. Are you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble/Microstory 4

It feels like falling. Does it? What does falling feel like? Do you even know what falling is? Falling... you’ve done that before, haven’t you? Before... before what? Was there ever a before? Was it not always like this? Like what? Like falling.

There is something. Something like you. But bigger. Much bigger. Stronger. Warmer. Where is it? Above you? Under you? Behind you? Around you. In you. No, you are in it.

Suddenly you feel something else. What is it? Fear. It’s fear. And panic. All consuming _painful._ It hurts like you don’t think it did before. Again that word, _before._ What was before? It hurts to think but you have to. Before. _Before._ _**Before.**_

The something reacts. It touches you, deeply, in places you didnt know could be touched, and the panic fades. You’re no longer falling. It’s warm, soft. There is nothing. Nothing to be afraid of. Afraid? Why would you be? Should you be? Wasn’t there something? Something you were worried about? But no. Why would there be? Everything is fine here. Here? Where is here? Is here always the same? Is it changing? It feels strange. It feels like falling.


	8. Sweet Azalea White Rose and Yellow Zinnia (Favaen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favaen mourns the loss of her god and comes to a decision.

_In your eagerness to celebrate the spring, do not forget that winter is needed to prepare for it._

Those had been His last words to her, spoken with the same warm fondness she’d known since childhood, without a trace of rebuke or censure, only a soft reminder. At least that’s what she had thought at the time, now she was not so sure anymore.

Knowing now what had occurred in the former colony, the words suddenly seemed a lot more ominous, a warning for the world as a whole, rather than the gentle hint she’d taken it for.

Favaen sighed and stared down at her most recent project. It was a silver ring; the frame was already finished and now there was only the filing and polishing left to do, the fine work that was always the hardest for her. Later she would fit a small adra stone into it as well, but for that she would need equipment which she didn’t have here. Thoughtfully she turned the ring over in her hand and watched the weak candlelight reflect from it.

Winter… a fitting word, for she hadn’t ever felt so cold before. There was a vast emptiness whenever she tried to reach out to Him, cold, foggy, and seemingly endless, where once there’d been warmth and comfort and understanding. She wanted to be brave, to reach further into the darkness and drag Him back out of it, but every time she tried, she froze in fear. What would she find there? What would she do if there was nothing in the silence? If they were right and He was gone…

With a huff she turned back to her ring and forcefully filed away at the metal. No, certainly there was not nothing, but perhaps she just wasn’t the one meant to find Him again. He hadn’t come to her after all, he’d come to a Readceran farmer. And it really wasn’t surprising, she was hardly the epitome of purity and forgiveness He deserved. It was fine. It was fine. She was fine.

Favaen stopped her work again when her hands started shaking too much for the delicate work. Wet droplets pearled from the silver in her hands, glittering with a mockery of His divine light. She certainly felt like a mockery herself, sitting in her room in the dark of night and envying a dead man. Distantly she knew her shoulders were shaking, but if from the constant cold she was feeling or the tears she couldn’t say nor care about.

It hurt. It hurt so much, and there was no one now to sooth that pain. Only the deafening silence and the secrets her god had taken with him to the grave, his own or his avatar’s.

The still sharp edges of the ring were starting to bite into her skin, and for a second, she thought about pressing even harder, perhaps the blood would wash away a little of her pain. But as soon as the thought came, she knew it was a bad idea. Hurting herself wasn’t going to make anything better, all it would do was make mother even more worried.

Slowly Favaen opened her hand, the movement a bigger struggle than she had expected. Again she reminded herself that there was nothing to be had with this, and besides, the ring was supposed to be gift for mother once she was finished, so sullying it with blood would be even worse.

Quickly she slid the ring into her pocket and wiped her still shaking hands on her grey work tunic that she hadn’t bothered to change out of after a day spent fixing up some damaged furniture from the Children’s Sanctuary. Sleep would not come, so why bother. Somehow, she felt filthy, even without having bloodied her hand. The walls of her small room were beginning to close on her, feeling suffocating in the way they only had started to recently.

When she couldn’t take the pressure on her soul anymore she shot up from her chair, breathing heavily, causing it to dip backwards and crash to the floor with a thump that broke the silence of the night jarringly. Favaen flinched. Nervously she looked to the door, but no sounds followed from outside, the noise seemingly having gone unnoticed by the rest of the temple.

She couldn’t stay in here. Her breaths were coming in short bursts and the slowly creeping feeling of suffocation was only worsened by her still coming sobs. Making a decision, she scrambled to the window, fumbling with the ledge a bit and then finally throwing it open, gulping in the fresh air. Without throwing a look back she climbed outside, not bothering even to change out of her dirty tunic and leggings. There would be no one to see her, and even if, Favaen had never bothered much with appearances.

Nimbly she climbed up the wall outside, using subtle nooks for footholds and pulling herself ever higher with the experience of someone who had done the same many times. A slight wind tugged on her hair, determined apparently to blow it before her eyes and trip her, but the breeze was no match for Favaen’s desperation to make it to the top. Of course she could have taken the stairs up to the roof, but she didn’t want to risk waking anyone. The idea of talking to someone was far more frightening right now than the climb up.

It didn’t take long, and she reached the ledge. Grabbing it with stiff fingers she dragged herself up and over it, rolling onto her back and no doubt dirtying her clothes even more. Her hands hurt, her eyes stung, her bare feet were rubbed open in places, but none of that mattered as she stared up into the night sky.

How many times had she been up here? Sometimes with other acolytes, sometimes with mother, sometimes alone. She had felt so many things on this roof, under this sky, under these stars, be it awe, happiness, frustration, contentment, but nothing compared to her feelings now, the fear, shame, and desperation. She looked up and didn’t see the many lights and waymarkers to whatever future you wished for from before. Instead she saw shards, broken pieces of a whole, scattered through an unescapable void of darkness. It felt like drowning in His corpse.

She tore herself around and away from the sight so violently that she hit her head against the roof under her. With a pained groan and closed eyes, she sat up, pressing her face into her hands and pushing down the resurfacing tears. Coming up here was a mistake, but else was she supposed to? Where would it be better if everything was a reminder?

Perhaps she wanted to look for answers out there, perhaps she just wanted away from her own thoughts again, or perhaps it was something completely different, but she pulled her hands away again and opened her eyes. What Favaen saw then was different from before, but yet oddly the same, the comparison and contrast giving her pause like few things did these days.

She saw the city under her. The small lights coming from the lanterns on the streets and out of the occasional window mirrored the stars above, dots of brilliance embedded in a blanket of blackness.

It didn’t make the hurt go away. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t suddenly make everything better. But it did keep her gaze. It struck something within her, something she couldn’t define yet but felt nonetheless.

And so she didn’t flee back down, but stayed. Minutes and hours passed by, as Favaen sat on that rooftop alone, knees drawn to her chest and arms slung around them, just watching these different and yet similar lights shine both in solitude and harmony. Occasionally a baby would cry, a bird would call, a lone person would hurry along the streets beneath, but the general air of quiet and isolation remained unbroken through the night.

Favaen sat and watched in silence, with only one thought that kept returning. Was this how it felt to be a god? Detached from the world, only observing but never taking part, not truly. Was that why He’d done what he’d done? Had He been lonely?

Time kept passing, but Favaen noticed none of it. The world, empty and cold, flickered past her, nothing more than a passing moment, even as it was the only thing she was aware of.

Until the world started changing. Slowly the lights all melted together, no singular one remaining and all becoming brighter for it, flooding the city with a blooming radiance. Favaen, being so thoroughly drowned in her thoughts, doubts, and feelings, took a few seconds to understand what she was seeing. The sun was rising.

She had spent the whole night up on the roof. Not far away the temple’s bells heralded morning mess, which she was clearly going to miss. The panic that usually accompanied the realisation that she was late failed to appear this time. What was the point if He was gone? She was just so tired.

The sun rose higher, the air warmed, and only then did Favaen notice how cold she’d become in her short work tunic. It was designed for the heat of the forge after all. As the sun inched higher into the sky, slowly but surely filling the world with warmth and light, Favaen found her eyes and attention glued to the skyline. Most lanterns in the city still burnt, as the people were only starting to wake up, and though the sun overshone each and everyone of them, they still shone with the same splendour as when they’d been alone.

Favaen had expected the dawn to hold the same pain the stars had held for her, but as she watched them pale and merge together, just like their brethren on the ground, there was a sweetness to her pain. There was the awe and wonder and oh so painful hope that had accompanied every dawn since she had found her calling.

She couldn’t make sense of what her brain was racing to tell her, what her soul yearned to believe, not yet at least, but in the pale morning light she lifted her scraped hands, only half aware of her actions, and muttered a prayer. A soft light enveloped her fingers, warmth spreading through them, and when the light receded the cuts and bruises had vanished, leaving behind unmarred skin.

Her cheeks were wet. It wasn’t raining. She had to be crying again.

She was, but this time it wasn’t desperation that had forced the tears to flow. She didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t so bad. The tears blurred her sight of the dawn, but that wasn’t so bad either. This way she could almost pretend He was here, His hands on her own, softly scolding her because she had been so careless with herself again.

That carelessness had gotten her scolded many times, from not only Him, but also her teachers. For a long time, she hadn’t understood what it mattered to them. Scrapes and bruises happened, and she was hardly going to die from them. Only her master at the Abydon temple, the closest to a father figure she ever had, had ever bothered to explain it to her. Back then he’d asked her why she always took care of her tools. Favaen had told him the very same thing every student was told over and over again until they remembered, that even the tiniest fracture could have disastrous consequences. In return he’d asked her why she thought it would be different with herself. That lesson had stuck, and though she didn’t always remember, from then on, she made an effort to at least patch herself up afterwards.

Tools… the memory sparked an idea in her mind, and she looked over the city with different eyes. She was a tool, they all were, tools to be shaped by Abydon and then wielded by themselves to carry on his teachings. They were hammers, sickles, chisels, and nails, and everything else, there was use for everyone somewhere. That was a base believe in the faith of Abydon, and one she had always found comfort in. Perhaps it wasn’t so far fetched to apply the same believe to Eothas, if maybe in a different form.

The lanterns. The stars. The candles. All the small lights that shone the way until the next dawn. Each different, but each with the same purpose.

She didn’t know why Eothas had done what He did. Perhaps she would never know. But she knew her purpose, she knew what she had to do until He returned. And He would return, she was sure of that now. Until then she would be a light the world needed. She would be the tool to prepare for His spring.

Perhaps she wasn’t innocence incarnate. Perhaps she didn’t have the endless patience of her peers. Perhaps she wasn’t as merciful and gentle as she should be. But maybe that wasn’t what He needed right now. Maybe that wasn’t what the world needed right now.

Favaen was stubborn. Favaen was confident. Favaen was resourceful. And Favaen had experience that others of her faith didn’t.

Looking towards the dawn, her cheeks still wet but eyes full of determination, she made a vow to herself, to Eothas, to Woedica, to all would hear it. She would weather the winter. She would shine through the night, as brightly as she could, and pave the way for all who would follow. And when He returned, when the next dawn rose, when the winter ended, she would be there to greet him. And the dawn each morning would be her reminder of this vow, to never forget it as long as she lived.

The solemn yet hopeful moment was broken by children’s laughter floating up to Favaen’s hide out. It seemed mess was already over and the school day for the temple children was about to start. Favaen smiled at the sound of shuffling feet, the thumps of small, running boots, giggles and shouts of protest alike. The world was moving, and she would do well to remember that.

A yawn forced its way out her mouth, and without any conscious choice of her own she found herself sprawled across the roof on her back. With the adrenalin and desperate melancholy finally gone, her muscles apparently refused to keep holding her up, the many sleepless nights at last catching up to her. The roof wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it also wasn’t awkward enough to warrant the effort of moving either. The slowly spreading warmth of the day almost made it cozy, and her brain even more sluggish. In her sleep deprived and already halfway dozing brain, the warm sunlight almost felt like a blanket.

Any fight she could have put up against her overworked body would have been doomed from the beginning, so she didn’t even try. The temple would survive without her for a few hours.

Curled up on the roof she was gently lulled to sleep by familiar words, sung in the slightly off key chorus of children’s voices.

 _Rejoice all ye who dwelleth in the shadow, who are broken and beaten. The winter soon comes to an end._  
Spring shall rise, bringing light and life to the world.  
Radiant light, radiant life, and thy soul shall find warmth in his arms.


	9. Fern (Aloth, Francesca)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aloth is busy dealing with his emotions. And an ambush.

Of course this had to happen. What else could possibly occur now that they were finally united again. A straightforward, easy mission? No, of course not. Nothing was ever that simple with her. No matter how often she claimed to only want a peaceful, comfortable life, she still chased down every opportunity for an adrenalin rush.

Speaking of adrenalin, Aloth thought and threw himself out of the way of an arrow. Rolling back onto his feet he cursed himself for getting distracted. That was what had landed them in this situation to begin with, and still he hadn’t learnt apparently. The snickering in his head seemed to agree.

_Ye were too busy makin’ up fur five years o’ oogeling th’ lassie._

Aloth could feel the tips of his ears heat up and almost tripped over his own feet dodging a sword.

“Not now!” he hissed, too busy with his opponents to try and suppress the voicing of his thoughts. It seemed to be in his favour too, as his enemy confusedly glanced behind them, giving him the perfect opening to cast his ghost blades.

There was no time to enjoy his success though, for as soon as this enemy was slain, another one popped up, coming at him swinging a sabre at his throat. He dodged again, but this time luck wasn’t on his side. Moving out of the way of the swing his foot caught in a root, if arcane or natural in nature he wasn’t sure, causing him to tumble to floor backwards, leaving him at the mercy of the sneering human woman above him.

Desperately he tried to scramble away, cursing this godforsaken island _(Haw! Godforsaken…)_ and everything on it, including himself. Unfortunately, his foot was stuck and getting it free would take a few seconds, seconds he didn’t have. As a last ditch effort he jerked his own blade up, hoping to at least deflect his enemy’s.

But the stab never came. Instead the woman above him was blasted by a bout of Minoletta’s Minor Missiles, the spell hitting her square in the chest and throwing her backwards. She didn’t get up again.

Neither did Aloth, too preoccupied with the question of who had thrown the spell. It couldn’t have been Edér and the new woman with them was obviously a priest, so she was out of the question either. So that left… No.

Despite knowing that remaining on the ground in the middle of a battle was a terrible idea, he turned around to find where the spell had come from. What he found was a picture he didn’t think he’d forget anytime soon.

Francesca stood with her bow raised, grinning at him like she’d known he’d look, with the purple remnants of the spell still shimmering around her fingers. The grin grew wider and with the speed of a practiced mercenary she grabbed and drew back another arrow, muttering the incantation under her breath, and released it, hitting another pirate that had come close to Aloth. Once again, the arrow hit with a shower of arcane missiles.

Aloth didn’t think he’d ever seen something as beautiful.

_Awright, ye'll hae time enough efter tae drool ower th’ lassie!_

That shook him out his reverence and with much regret he turned away to finally free his foot and get back into the fray. Heat filled his cheeks and didn’t want to know how red he was, but even as he engaged the next enemy the picture of Francesca stayed burnt into his mind. The strands of her white hair that had escaped the bun fluttering in the breeze, her dark skin glistening with sweat, her lithe muscles straining, the sly glint in her eyes, the **magic** sparkling around her-

 _Ye could hae hud her if ye stayed._ Maybe, but he hadn’t been ready then. There was so much more to do, and the idea of confronting his own feelings for her had been far too intimidating. Five years had passed, and he had changed, as had she obviously, and in all the best ways. There was still much to do with his own quest and the rampant god on the loose, and he still wasn’t quite ready to ask for what he now knew he truly wanted, but maybe… maybe he could start making up for all the years he’d been away. With some good tea and a fascinating discussion about her new abilities perhaps. Moving slow.

 _If ye move ony slower ye'll turn intae a snail._ Yselmyr’s grumbling was thankfully quiet, still annoyed with his choices but apparently not enough to try and meddle again. While he knew Francesca would understand, he still wanted to do this by himself.

Throwing another look over his shoulder he watched as she took down another enemy with the grace of a predator and the elegance of a well-educated wizard. Yes, he would do this. Slowly.

Cursing he dodged another attack. And after dealing with this ambush.


	10. The Fool and the Priestess (Adaryc, Favaen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaryc meets Favaen

Adaryc had seen many things in his life, many of them he’d never asked for. He’d seen violent deaths, betrayals, even ghosts, and yet somehow nothing had ever shocked him quite as much as the steaming priestess in front of him.

He’d long given up trying to defend himself against the onslaught of words coming from her, instead attempting to force his mind to catch up with reality. An Eothas priestess in the Dyrwood. Clothed in His colours and symbols in a clear statement. In the middle of his command tent after having apparently snuck through his whole camp with five others. A watcher. _Like him._

And now she was lecturing him on the idiocy of keeping the villagers as prisoners. He wanted to defy her, to ask her how she’s come in here, to throw her out and send her back as a warning to these insane mountain dwellers.

He couldn’t. Not only because of the symbols on her clothes, though that certainly had something to do with it, but also because something about her compelled him to listen. He believed her. He didn’t know, he didn’t know this woman after all, but still he felt shame rising in his chest at his own actions.

But she didn’t condemn him. She told him he was being stupid and offered him a way to do better. She offered understanding, kindness, and guidance, and something compelled him to believe her.

Perhaps it was her looks, the familiar symbols over unfamiliar colours, and her hair, shining like the dawn itself. Perhaps it was his yearning for spiritual guidance that had only grown in the last 15 years that he had spent with grieving. Or perhaps it was the fact that she was like him. Cursed.

What would his men say? But so what if he was going to help the crazy lady who had broken into their camp? She was clearly a holy woman. That would have to be explanation enough for them. And for Adaryc himself for that matter.


	11. comfort food (Mani, Waidwen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mani finds Waidwen in the middle of the night snacking in the kitchen.

A figure moves through the dark corridors of Readceras’ castle. They make no sounds, their soft leather boots gliding more across the floor than stepping. What they lack in sound they make up for in visibility, luminous skin and horns softly shining a cold light onto the walls, that is reflected once again by the small twinkling accents of its rich clothing. An unmissable sight, but no one is around to witness it. 

The figure glides further down the halls, turning around every so often, looking for something, and never finding it. Their strides grow more forceful the more time passes, and their aura angrier.

It finally halts in front of the kitchen door, which is slightly left ajar, the flickering light of a fire spilling out. The figure carefully pushes the door open, peeking in.

“Mhffn.” Mani sighs, the light of his horns dimming a little with the breath as he steps fully into the kitchen.

“First swallow, then talk.” With a raised eyebrow and disapproving look he stoically endures the grumpy stare of Waidwen, who sits hunched over at one of the tables, munching on what looks like a moldy piece of bread. Mani desperately hopes it’s not a moldy piece of bread.

“I said morning.”

“It’s not.” Tired and dry eyebrow meets tired and smug grin.

“No, but soon.” Oh, how Mani wishes it wasn’t true. But before he can break down over a lost night of sleep he really needs to check what his king is putting in his mouth.

With fluid steps he crosses the room, suspiciously eyeing whatever the man before is listlessly shoving into his mouth. To his relief it is not mold on the bread. To his disgust it is an egg swimming swimming in milk.

Waidwen seems to mistake his large eyes for a sign of interest and wordlessly offers him a second such... snack on a plate in front of him. 

Mani hesitates. He really doesn’t want to touch this much less eat it, but... He glances back at Waidwen, takes in his hunched form, his even more tousled hair than usual, his vaguely glassy eyes. 

He just so bites back a sigh. The things he does for this man...Decidedly he grabs the offered slice and doesn’t let himself falter as he lifts his hand bites into the strange snack.

The taste isn’t as bad as he expected, the consistency is what really offends him. The egg squelches in his mouth, the milk running off and pooling under his tongue. He swallows it as quickly as possible and lowers it again, grabbing a delicate hankerchief from a small pocket and wiping away any remaining fluid. Not wanting to make his disgust overly overt he looks down to where Waidwen is still munching bread.

“Why exactly are you here snacking in the middle of the night anyway?”

The man before him doesn’t reply at first, continually staring down at the sandwhich. Once he does answer Mani almost doesn’t hear him.

“I can’t eat what they make. It’s... it all looks so strange and it makes me queazy.” This time Mani does sigh.

“Waidwen, you are king. If you don’t like the food you can say so and the cooks will happily make you something else.” There was no answer, not that Mani had expected one.

“Come on, finish that bread and we still get an hour of sleep in. In the morning I’ll see that the menu is changed.” Thankfully it doesn’t take too long and Waidwen is too tired to argue, and after another few seconds they’re on the way out the door and to their respective chambers. 

They’ve almost reached their goal when Mani feels a prickling in the back of his head and he just barely stops himself from screaming the start of a chant. He knows who this is. He doesn’t like it. But attacking would be phenomenally stupid. The prickling grows a little stronger and warmer.

_Thank you._

The prickling vanishes, leaving Mani relieved and even more exhausted behind. 

Waidwen doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, and so Mani continues on in silence. He wonders, quietly and as hidden away in his mind as he can muster just in case, just when his life turned into this strange mixture of love and suspicion, and just why he can’t quite muster his usual resentment for it.


	12. sunbathing (Favaen)

Favaen lets herself fall backwards to the ground with a sigh, for once not caring about getting her robes dirty. The grass is soft under her hands, and with a satisfied hum she closes her eyes, soaking up the warm rays of the afternoon sun hitting her skin.

She doesn’t regret her decision to come back. In fact she’s never been more certain that her life is finally on track, but that doesn’t mean it’s not exhausting. She spent the whole day dragging around furniture in preparation of tomorrow’s solstice festival. Her muscles are burning from the day’s work, but it’s a gratifying burn, the one that proves that you’ve done well.

In the background she can hear bustling from afar, no doubt the decoraters finishing up the last bits and pieces they’ve prepared. The remainder of the day would be spent helping the cooks prepare the food, a lengthy task with how many people always come to the festival to enjoy the food, the company, the games, and certainly the idea of having His attention for a day. 

But for now she has some time for herself, to just the enjoy the summer warmth in all His glory, before the bustle would start all over again. Not that she minds it, she is more than excited for the day to come, having nabbed one of the best jobs in her opinion. But still, she enjoys the calm comfort of His warmth.

While she is lying there an idea sneaks into her mind. With a bit of slow, lazy shimmying she pulls off her long tunic, and after some thought her pants follow suit. The day is warm enough for it and she really wants soak up as much as possible, so her underwear will have to suffice as protection of her modesty. More for the benefit of others though, she herself has long lost any such shame, much to the annoyance of some of the more conservative clergy members.

Her limbs stretched out she just breaths. The air warm, but not uncomfortable. The grass is soft and cool. Slowly Favaen feels herself drift off, not at all concerned with anything going on around her. Even if she should fall asleep someone will get her once it is time for cooking. For now she will just enjoy the moment of peace.


	13. Shimmer (Favaen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favaen entertains the children at the solstice festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celtic music slaps, 9/10, can reccomend. One point reduced because it slaps so much it makes me jump up and dance around my room, not good for writing.

Best. Job. Ever. Favaen feels her face slowly starting to hurt from grinnig so much but really can’t bring herself to care. The shining smiles of the children sitting in front of her are more than worth it.

With another dramatic flourish she throws her hands into the air, sparkles of light bursting from her fingers and filling the air with shimmering colours. She steps forward swinging her arms with her and blows the sparks over the children’s heads. Gasps sound from them and wide eyes follow her as she twirls once, letting her wide, loose robes flare out. She twists her body with the story, rolling her shoulders back and leaning forward as the villain, straightening with chin held high as the heroine, always colouring the glimmering mist around them.

Ribbons fly from her form, words fly from her mouth as her story reaches its climax. On step, two steps, three steps, and Favaen lets the world explode with the brightest flash she can muster. The children shout with excitement, and even some adults a distance away clap a little.

The story comes to an end, the heroine reaches her goal and Favaen lets the light dim down to a calm shimmer. She slows her movements, matching the peacefulness of her words. With light, slow steps she glides down to the ground, pulling the mist of sparkles with her and over the kids’ heads.

She speaks the last words, and relinquishis her hold on the spell. The carefully maintained glimmers float to the ground, unmoved by the children’s giggling attempts to catch them. 

Grinning Favaen watches them as she grabs her nearby watcer bottle. Her arms were starting to hurt as well now, but she could really not think of a better way to spend the solstice festival.


	14. a kiss on the hair and  between the shoulder blades (Waidwen, Broder)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much sweet  
> all the sweet  
> all of it

“Do you think I’m right?”

“I think we’re too deep into it to stop now.” Silence. The papers in Broder’s hand crinkle a little. The silence persists. The writing seems to blur a little. After the third time reading the same line Broder gives up and puts the documents away and looks over. “But this isn’t about the war is it?”

The form on the bed doesn’t move, head stubbornly turned away to face the wall.

“If I’m wrong… If we lose… what will you do?” Broder can’t see his face, but he can see the white knuckles clutching the bedding, and he can hear the nervous tension in the words. Broder frowns.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding here.” One he has to clear up right now. But how to? It’s not that he minds saying it, but he knows that words alone just won’t do his feelings justice. I they did this wouldn’t be happening. So he shuts his mouth again and gets up, walking over to Waidwen with steady steps. In front of him he kneels down, looking up to the younger man who is now confusedly glancing down at him.

“I want to show you something. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” There is no hesitation in the answer, which is a better balm for Broder’s soul than any words could be.

“Then take off your shirt.” Waidwen furrows his eyebrows but does as requested. Broder gets up and slips behind him on the ridiculously large bed, one leg on either side. Gently he wraps his arms around the still too thin man in front of him, leaving no space between them. The skin under his arms is warm, warmer than it really should be, but he’s learnt to ignore that by now. There is no tensing of muscles at the hug, and Broder can’t help but feel proud at how far they’ve already come since those first awkward weeks. But still, obviously there’s more ground to cover.

Broder moves slightly back and does what he hasn’t quite dared until now. He has to lean downward a little to reach, but without hesitation he presses his lips on the spot between Waidwen’s shoulder blades, right were those awful scars start to run down his back. This time he can feel Waidwen tense in his arms, but the younger man doesn’t pull away, and so Broder lets the kiss last a while longer. He can feel the rough, protruding skin under his lips, and has to fight down his rising anger at the one who’d caused them. Hate is exactly the wrong sensation right now, and so he lets it be drowned out by all the other things he’s feeling.

After a while he sits up again, pressing his chest against Waidwen’s back and puts his chin on his shoulder. His next words are firm and entirely doubtless. There are few thing’s he’s ever meant this much, and almost all of them have to do with the man in his arms right now.

“Whether this is a good idea, whether we will win or lose, has fuck all to do with my love for you.” At this he can feel Waidwen try to pull away and turn, can hear him draw breath to speak, and immediately shushes him, keeping his grip tight. “No, you’ll listen to me right now. I don’t give a fuck about any moral dilemmas here. I don’t care where we’ll end up, or what bad choices you’ll make. I love you now and I’ll love you tomorrow just as much. Do you understand that?”

It doesn’t look like he does, and Broder can feel something in him pull painfully, but he doesn’t let that deter him, if anything it serves as more fuel for his determination.

“Even when you make some shitty choices, even if you ever really piss me off, I will always love you anyway, okay?” Broder holds tight, not wanting to give the younger man any chance to get out of this, to keep falling for the shit he’d obviously been fed during his childhood. Waidwen still isn’t looking at him, but after many seconds of heavy silence he finally nods.

“Good.” Broder exhales heavily and feels the tension bleed away. It isn’t much, but he’ll be satisfied with this victory. He lifts one hand away from where he’s slung it around Waidwen’s chest and instead grasps the back of his head pulls him gently under his chin. He plants a soft kiss onto his hair, leaving his nose buried there and the two as close as possible. “And don’t you forget it, you hear me?” These words are quieter than the ones before, softer, but he certainly means them no less. If he has to remind Waidwen every day of it, he will without a second of hesitation.

They stay like that for an undefinable amount of time longer, but neither of them cares. What is a little time in the face of what they have and what’s soon to come?


	15. a kiss on the back of the hand (Mani, Waidwen)

In the beginning it had been convenience. Sure, it had been weird that some random farmer had managed to rattle the population so much, and much weirder that he’d actually managed to overthrow the local government. Sure, he’d been somewhat shocked in the first moments. But Mani was nothing if not cunning, and so he’d decided to use the situation to his advantage and had pledged his loyalty.

Later it had been respect. The uncultured farmer had caused him quite a lot of frustration, but at some point they had found themselves on equal ground. What better way to unite than a shared hatred of establishments of power? What better way to unite than a shared disappointment in family? And for the first time Mani was put into a position of power by someone who expected and trusted him to fill it well.

And even later it was fondness. Mani didn’t know when exactly it happened, but at some point they went from king and councillor to friends. Perhaps it had been the first time someone had targeted Mani in an assassination attempt and Waidwen had stepped in front of him without hesitation, perhaps it had been when he’d first seen those horrible scars on Waidwen’s back. Whatever it had been, it had made the situation personal. The guy might be an uncultured oaf, but he was his uncultured oaf.

Now… now it had stopped being a game. Now it was no longer about fucking over some assholes, or about helping his friend. Now it was war, and now his friend had grown up. Now it was awe… Now it was love.

They were standing before the crowd of cheering peasants, the whole plaza full of people declaring their support, but Mani’s eyes were on his king. Gone was the uncultured fool who couldn’t brush his hair. Gone was the stubborn country bumpkin refusing to wear something that wasn’t old and tattered. Gone was the half feral young man who would flinch if someone dared step up behind him.

Instead there stood the god-king he’d tried so hard to portray before and had never quite been. Immaculate clothing, no matter how simple, clean, back straight, self-assured and confident, and completely in control of the situation. Calm. A leader.

One Mani would follow to the end of time and back if asked.

And one Mani wouldn’t follow, because he’d been asked to stay.

He knew why, in fact in Mani’s opinion it was the most logical choice they could make. Someone needed to govern Readceras while Waidwen was gone, and he was capable and prepared for the task. Mani wasn’t a soldier, he wouldn’t do much good on the front lines, but back here he could keep the country together.

Mani hated it. He hated that he had to let go, and he hated that he would have to trust others to keep him safe. And he hated that it was the right choice nonetheless.

Mani watched peasants cheer out their approval, saw Broder standing not far to the side with a proud gaze on Waidwen, and felt inadequate. Now was the time to voice feelings, to show his admiration and pride, to demand he be careful. And still all those words he he’d always been so proud of failed him. How could he possibly explain this storm of conflicting feelings in him to someone else, when he couldn’t understand them himself?

And so he didn’t. He shoved all this confusion away from his mind, banished all thoughts of logic or pride, and what remained was the only way of expressing love he’d ever known. And for the first time he found he really wanted to.

Mani stepped forward. The crowd quieted a little. Waidwen’s head turned as he watched Mani step before him, somewhat expectant, but without nervousness.

His steps felt heavy and sounded too loud. All eyes were on him, and once again there was this confusion. It was strange, he felt like he should hate what he was about to do, and hate even more that people were watching, but he didn’t. It felt right. And yet his hands were sweating.

Mani knelt. His back to the people he looked up to Waidwen and held out one hand, his mouth feeling oddly dry for reasons he had no interest in examining. A few seconds past, and suddenly Mani became aware that perhaps Waidwen didn’t know what Mani wanted from him. But before Mani could truly start panicking at his failure in proper etiquette teaching Waidwen slowly lifted his own hand and put it in his. For a second Mani was distracted at how unlike his own it was. Mani’s hands were soft, meticulously cared for and entirely unmarred. Waidwen’s were covered in calluses, small scars and rough spots, from years and years of being rubbed open again and again. This was a hand no noble would ever willingly touch with even their fingertips.

With all the care one would treat a new-born child with he lifted Waidwen’s hand, turned his head downwards and gently pressed his lips against the weathered skin. Without conscious decisions his eyes closed and all that was left was the sensation of warm, rough skin against his much softer lips. No sound passed through to him if there was any at all.

He stayed like that as long as he could, dragging out what was supposed to be a short proclamation of respect into an intimate moment. Even as he slowly drew back from the kiss, he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to this moment end and see what would happen afterwards. He didn’t want to give up this last shred of control he still had.

So Mani stayed on his knees, Waidwen’s hand still in his own, and pressed the back of it to his forehead, eyes still closed, denying their surroundings. He couldn’t explain why this was so important to him, why he couldn’t give up this last shred of connection, why he needed this physical connection so dearly, why he even did this in the first place. He’d kissed plenty of hands in his life, and he’d hated it every time. He’d hated having to suck up to others, to bow to someone else. He didn’t hate this.

The hand against his forehead moved, and for one short moment Mani was tempted to hold on tighter and refuse to let go, but the hand didn’t pull back, instead moving to the side of his face, softly caressing his cheek. Against better judgement Mani opened his eyes, looked up, and met Waidwen’s gaze. The man (king, god, _friend_ ) was looking at him with a strange mixture of warmth, curiosity and understanding.

For just a second longer this moment was theirs, shared in intimate companionship, but all moments must end, and so this one did all too soon as well. The atmosphere was broken when Waidwen glanced to the side, and upon looking back to Mani pulled his hand from his face, instead holding it out in a clear offer.

Finally starting to notice the noise and people behind him Mani grabbed the offered hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet. He already missed the warm contact.

Reluctant as he was to leave behind this strange comfort, Mani did as he’d always done and seamlessly fitted himself back into the role of arrogant noble. Chin up and face smoothed out into indifference he returned to his place behind Waidwen. Warmth filled his cheek, a shadow of the feeling from before, and he couldn’t help but desperately try to carve it into his memory.

A pit of dread formed in his stomach then as he watched Waidwen from behind. There was no reason for it, everything was going well, and still there was a nagging in the back of his head, this insistence that there had been something else, that this warmth that he was still feeling hadn’t been all. Mani knew this nagging well, he had carefully cultivated it over years, had hones his sense to all the subtleties of court, and it had never failed him. In that moment Mani prayed for the first time, to Eothas, to Hylea, to whoever would hear him, that just this one time it would. That this wouldn’t be the last kiss he was allowed to give his king, his god, his _friend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a point when I didn't understand why people would want to read greek tragedies. Now watch me writing this shit.


	16. foreign memories

Waidwen doesn’t dream often anymore. Eothas keeps most of the nightmare away, and normal dreams he’s never been good at remembering. But sometimes… sometimes he’ll dream like he never has before. He sees people, buildings, places that look alien to him. Strange structures built of adra, copper and marble, clothes that look like nothing he’s ever seen. Those dreams feel strange. They’ll stay with him, refusing to vanish into oblivion, and instead burying themselves into his mind until he thinks it’s been real.

It isn’t unpleasant per se, it doesn’t hurt, and they are never awful things, just ordinary people doing ordinary things while looking strange. But then… There are other dreams as well. They have the same backdrop, the same odd buildings and clothes, but they are focused on a person, an elven woman. She has jet black hair that’s spilling over her shoulders hardly ever contained, delicate features, and pale green eyes. Her clothes are usually far more ornate than most of the other people he sees, but sometimes they are more practical, and she looks younger.

In the beginning he didn’t care much. He’s asked Eothas about the dreams once, but the god seemed honestly surprised, and so Waidwen hasn’t asked again. But the woman keeps appearing, and with every appearance her picture becomes a little bit more tainted with emotions that he knows aren’t his. Most of all it is a familiar fondness, one he’s come to cherish quietly. It is thankfulness, though for what Waidwen doesn’t know. But it is also sadness. A deep underlying sadness, that becomes more and more prevalent with each night.

Waidwen doesn’t know this woman, but by now he is sure that Eothas once has. And though he has never seen how her story ended, he has the impression it wasn’t good. He has yet to ask Eothas about her, and for once it isn’t because he fears retribution, but because he doesn’t want to hurt someone with his words.

But something has to be done, both for his own sanity and Eothas’…

“You want me to draw a woman from your description?” Waidwen can feel Mani’s doubting glare and regrets nothing.

“Yep.” Two gazes meet, one unapologetic, the other annoyed, and both unrelenting.

“First of all, why me? I’m certain there a number of artists who would jump at each other’s throats for a commission from you, and also why can’t you just bring her around? I can’t imagine anyone would be shy about the Divine King wanting a portrait of them.”

“Because I’m pretty sure she’s dead.” Mani starts and Waidwen grins. It seems like he’s won that round.

“Why do you want a picture from a dead woman? And why don’t you know if she’s dead?” The appalled tone of the question serves only to amuse Waidwen even further, though the question itself causes Waidwen’s feeling of victory to fade somewhat again. He frowns. It is certainly a fair question, but not one easily answered.

It takes many words and minutes, some disbelieving stares from Mani, and a lot of general confusion, but in the end Mani agrees. They spend some from their schedules scraped together hours sitting in Waidwen’s chambers for privacy, Mani sitting at the desk over a piece of parchment, and Waidwen crouched on a chair behind him, always glancing over his shoulder. Most of the time is spent in silence, the quiet only interrupted by Waidwen’s descriptions and Mani’s occasional complaints about having to work with only vague notions.

The result is better than Waidwen expected. Though it is colourless, it lookes almost identical to the woman in his dreams, draped in her more ornate attire and gazing serenely out of the picture. It is captivating in its beauty, and Waidwen finds himself staring at it. Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness he hears something that sounds suspiciously like grumbling about how he shouldn’t act so surprised, but when he can finally tear himself away from the picture Mani is already gone.

That causes him a slight bit of guilt, but it isn’t like Mani is just going to vanish from now on. He’ll make sure to thank him later.

Treating the delicate parchment as careful as possible, he sticks it in a pocket and pulls over a dark cloak, that will hide him better in the slowly falling darkness than his usual clothes. He doesn’t worry about being stopped too much, he doesn’t even intend to leave the property, and so leaves it open to avoid seeming too suspicious.

His soft soles make hardly a sound on stone floor of the halls and later the ground of the courtyard, and so he quickly makes his way to the other side of the complex, far in back of the vast gardens within the wall. There, right at the wall, is a tiny little chapel, hardly more than a hut really, with crumbling walls and a leaking roof. He found it not long after the coup, when he was overwhelmed by all the people and fled to the solitude of the garden. It already looked abandoned for a few years at that point, and so it became his secret refuge. He’s done a little work repairing it, but time isn’t really on his side, and so he hasn’t made much progress. But it’s enough for this purpose.

Carefully he pushes inside, taking care not to accidentally break the door in the process. Inside he gently puts the picture down on the tiny altar, leaning it against the back wall. He grabs one of the candles from the side, puts it down in front of the picture, and lights it, careful not to damage the picture behind it. The candles he hasn’t brought himself, they just simply appeared there one day, which made him quite paranoid for a while about who had discovered his little nook. Since nothing has happened since then, and the little chapel has yet to be swarmed with servants insisting that they clean it up for him, his guess is that it had been Broder who found it, and that he deemed it safe enough.

Once he’s prepared the little memorial, he sits down on the floor in front of it, takes a deep breath, and pokes the entity in the back of his head, that has yet to react to his latest plot, either busy with something else or too confused about it.

It seems to be the former option, as Eothas inched closer to the surface of Waidwen’s consciousness and surprise filteres through. Surprise, confusion, sadness, and after that a spark of thankfulness.

_I wasn’t aware you’d seen that much. I apologize._

“It wasn’t all that much, but I can guess what happened.” They share the silence for a while, the only light being the flickering candle, and a soft shimmer from himself. The dim light lets the dark strokes on the parchment seem even harsher against the light backdrop and the flickering makes her seem almost alive.

“Do you want to tell me about her?” Hesitation is the immediate response, but the feeling quickly softens as the candle burns a little brighter.

_I think I would like that._


End file.
